


Game Over

by rallamajoop



Category: Guilty Gear
Genre: M/M, Side Red/Side Black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rallamajoop/pseuds/rallamajoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even in death, Ky just won't give him a break. Set in the alternate universe from the Side Red and Side Black drama CDs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game Over

Even in death, Ky just won't give him a break. He has a habit of showing up during the few hours Sol gets on maybe a weekly basis for some proper sleep, always looking unfairly healthy and clean, so close to glowing with all that holy righteousness that it would make anyone sick. Sol pretends to be asleep or pretends Ky's not there, but even though 'sleep' these days usually means he falls flat on his face on the first comfortable surface available and doesn't move an inch until someone wakes him up to deal with yet another goddamned disaster, this strategy never works. It's like pretending you can't feel the sun shining into your face.

The conversation goes something like this.

"Sol," Ky will say, no footsteps leading up, no more warning than that. Sol does not look up – will spend the whole conversation speaking into whatever he's using as pillow when can get away with it, but Ky will only repeat his name if he doesn't respond.

"Shut up," he grumbles. "Can't you see I'm trying to sleep?"

"I didn't mean to disturb you," says Ky, polite nonsense.

Sol growls, "What are you doing here? If you've come back for your army, you can have it. Might be a bit worse for wear than it used to be."

Ky tells him, "It isn't that bad."

"Not that bad?" Even muffled by the pillow Sol sounds incredulous. "Haven't you seen how fast we're sending troops after you?"

"It's been like that from the beginning," Ky says, too gently. "It's war. There'll always be casualties. On both sides."

"Cut the crap," Sol snarls. "We're losing and you know it." And that's top of the list of things even he might not acknowledge in waking hours, but in this company, what's the use of pretence?

"You haven't lost," Ky says. "You defeated Justice."

Sol doesn't want reminding, he's never picked up Ky's taste for heroics. "Bitch left us a hell of a going away present."

But the damn kid won't let even that discourage him. "Dizzy isn't undefeatable either. You haven't done badly."

"Like hell." It drives him even more insane that Ky keeps his temper so easily now. "If you were alive, you'd have argued with every order I ever gave."

"You can't dwell on what could have been, Sol," says Ky, and if Sol had been in the mood to care, that might have been as close as he ever got in these meetings to sounding regretful. "All you can do is keep moving forward."

Sol hasn't been convinced for a long time there is anywhere forward for them to go – this war's gone on over a hundred years already, and the only reason it won't last another hundred is there'll be no-one left to fight it. A glorious death in battle isn't his style. Leading an army in defence of mankind isn't his style either, but he knows who to blame that one on.

"Bastard," he grumbles, and it might be a good thing his face is somewhere Ky can't see it. "Knew you went and died just to make me do your job for you."

"It'll be alright, Sol. Have faith." The weight of a hand comes to rest on his shoulder. "Everything you've achieved hasn't been in vain. And even…"

It's generally right at this point that someone comes bursting in with news of some new disaster which absolutely can't be dealt with without the commander's input, and Sol gets reminded anew that real sleep or a night without restless ghosts to bother you are luxuries for people who haven't had the fate of the world deposited on their shoulders. Even after that, he can count on spending at least the next twenty four hours with the nagging urge to get a certain teenaged Frenchman somewhere private and strip him out of his clothes, which was frustrating enough even back when it was just a really bad idea and not a metaphysically impossibility to boot.

He never gets anything useful done on those days.


End file.
